Rhys hadn’t lied. Kissing Jules Lowry would never be a problem. The real problem was much bigger. Faking anything with her was problematic because he wouldn’t be faking it.
He didn’t know when that had happened, and he wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.
He wanted this woman, not in the she’s-hot, let’s-bang way that she expected of men but in the she-was-his-and-how-had-he-missed-it way.
Fucking hell.
Wanting her was as real as the problems it created. He’d crossed a professional line and didn’t know how to navigate back to where they had been.
Jules had vulnerabilities he hadn’t expected. That upped the protective ante. He always took care of her. He always kept her safe.
Pulling back was the right call. It should have felt like control, but it didn’t.
This uncertainty she had, he wanted to fix that.
Maybe he would later, but at the moment, they weren’t alone. Somewhere along the beach or on a boat, a photographer with a telephoto lens was tracking them.
Rhys ran a hand over his face and stepped back. “You’re not changing anything with Sloane.”
Her kiss-swollen lips parted as though she might protest, but not a single word slipped out.
“If we have to kiss, we kiss. If we have to be close, we get close. This is fine, Jules. You’re fine. Everything is fine. I promise. There’s no need to freak out. It’s just me.”
She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth then released it.
“We’re adults, and I’m happy to participate in whatever dog-and-pony show you need to perform to shove it to your ex.”
“He isn’t really an ex,” she whispered. “Not like you’re thinking.”
“I get that. I do. You don’t have to explain it again.” The idea that she’d almost married him because she was scared to be alone was unacceptable. Rhys had questions, but that was for another time. “He lied to you. If making out with me on the beach helps you spin the celebrity publicity machine in your favor, then fuck it, Jules. We’ll go make out on the beach.”
He wished he could see her face better. He had cataloged most of her expressions and body language, but right now, he didn’t know how to read her. It was as though she were getting farther and farther away.
“But…” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Jules.” He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb over her soft skin. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you and I can kiss.” His lips quirked. “As in no practice needed. Super-Bowl-champs, gold-medal-winning, stand-at-the-top-of-Kilimanjaro-level lip-locking.”
“You’re making me feel ridiculous.” She swayed as though she was considering running from him again but pushed herself to finish the conversation. “I forced—”
“Are you not hearing a word I’m saying?” His hand slid from her cheek to tip her chin up. His mouth hovered over her lips, and he relished in the breathy almost touch. “This…” He brushed his lips to hers. “Works…” Their kiss barely connected. “For me.”
He barely inched back. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. Jules pressed her palm to his chest. Her fingers curled together, knotting his shirt in them. A heavy weight in his chest thudded into his throat. So much for pretending to fake it.
They might fake a relationship. But there was no pretending they hadn’t just struck a match to gasoline.
Her eyelashes fluttered open, and their gazes locked.
He wasn’t one for over-the-top sentiments, but the sand beneath his bare feet seemed to fall away. Years of working with her, of objectively knowing she was beautiful, were erased as though he’d never seen her before. She licked her bottom lip, and every ounce of his self-control was needed to keep from taking that bottom lip between his teeth.
Her breath shook. She released the hold on his shirt as though the scene had ended and stepped back. “I need to go to bed.”
Fuck.Fuck.
He’d fucked this up so badly he didn’t know another fucking word. “Yeah. Sure.”
His muscles ached, and walking over the sand like he was trudging through wet cement, he snagged her shoes, mentally shouted “Fuck!” a few more times, and returned to her side.
Side by side, they quietly ambled toward the boardwalk. She slid on her sandals once they reached the torch-lit path that led to her bungalow. He didn’t grab her hand or touch her back, aware the entire time that was what he wanted to do. All theyears spent working together in relative ease had disappeared because of his stupid mouth.
